He was on the couch. He was spread out, limbs splayed everywhere. His head was on the arm rest, but he didn't know where the rest of him was. Something was touching his hand and he couldn't place how it felt, but it felt.

Or maybe it tasted.

He couldn't decide.

And who was he? He knew he knew this, this was the simplest of knowledge. He had to know this, he had to. He felt like it certainly couldn't be Sherlock, but also that it had to be, because who else but him could be called something like this?

And when he heard (or was it felt?) the door (window?) open, he suddenly found his head spinning and spinning and the room was spinning and everything was everywhere, but suddenly he saw his legs, if that's what they were, and his feet connected. His feet in shoes, so shiny black, or was it salty black? They were on the floor. The wooden, carpet floor.

And the room was everywhere again and he was looking towards the door. It had been the door all along. But what had it done? What do doors do?

More importantly, there was a man standing there.

"Who are you?" came a voice somewhere from Sherlock's chest, so he looked down at his chest and he stared and stared until the man at the door also had a voice travel over.

But what did he say?

He looked at the man and couldn't see his face, he couldn't see his face, where was his face, where was it?

"You are in my flat," the voice from his chest stated steadily. He looked down at his chest for a second again. It was doing what he needed it to, so maybe the voice was his friend.

"Where are you?" his friend asked.

"Where am- I'm right in front of you, Sherlock," replied the man. Sherlock stared at him. He had been right. It is his name, it couldn't be anything but that. He had always known that it had to be.

"I meant who. Where are we going?" he found the voice asking when the man walked closer and held out his knee (or was it his foot?), no, it had to be his hand, didn't it?

"Take my hand," the man said softly. Sherlock found (what had to be) his own hand betraying him and taking hold of the man's hand.

"You filthy sneak," his friend hissed at the hand. The hand looked sad, but held firm and determined. Sherlock felt something on his face and decided to call it a smeer, though sneer sounded better. He liked smeer.

He felt his arm get pulled out of its socket and everything was gone, the room was everywhere and nowhere and his heart was beating in every part of him, but no part was connected to any other part. Where were his feet, where was his hand, where was his face, and where was his friend?

"Help," said his friend from his chest in a small voice, and everything was there again. He found his friend, he found his limbs, and he found the man without the face.

But his face was there, but it looked clouded. Sherlock felt his face do some sort of involuntary twitch- blink. He blinked. And his face felt (or tasted?) wet (or salty?) and nothing was clouded anymore.

"John," the voice said. "John, that's you, that's John. It's John, John," the voice continued, telling Sherlock and his fingers and his eyes and his feet and his shoes and his knees and Sherlock and Sherlock and Sherlock and Sherlock and it was telling everything and when Sherlock stopped listening (or the voice stopped talking, whichever it was), he didn't see the man anymore, but he felt warm (or was it comfortable?) and he felt safe (or was it loved?) and he didn't want to move (or was it that he wanted to cry? What was that?)

And where was anything?

"I'm here," came a voice from the man's chest.

"Nice to meet you," Sherlock's friend said to the man's friend.

"You… too," the voice replied. And Sherlock's voice laughed happily. The man pulled back and looked (or smelled?) at him, letting out a surprised laugh.

This only made Sherlock's friend from his chest laugh louder, and louder, and he was clutching at his chest, why was his friend hurting him, why, why, why, why, and it was laughing louder and louder, and ouch, and it was screaming he was screaming and screaming and the world was spinning.

And everything was silent and the world was still, but it was spinning around him. And the man was leaning over him. It was John, it was John. John.

"John," Sherlock croaked.

"Sherlock?" he asked back timidly.

"Is my chest voice friend gone? He was hurting me."

It was silent for what felt like forever and ever and it was much too long.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes. He's gone, he won't hurt you," came a reply with a very odd voice. Sherlock stared at John's face, it was certainly his face it couldn't be anyone else but John Watson's face. And he looked like his eyes were also salty (or was it wet?) like Sherlock's had been.

And Sherlock felt his face squeeze and it was weird, but he felt his chest tighten and it was weird, but he felt John lean on him and pull him against him warm and safe again, and it was nice and he couldn't control it when he started making weird noises.

He didn't approve of them, but then his knees decided they weren't close enough to him and his chest was so tight and he was— sobbing, he was sobbing and he had something wet or salty or black (what was it?) on his face and he felt John and he was shaking and making… hushing noises and muttering something and it wasn't clear, but things were clearing up, but then everything was gone and he was sleeping.

But he wasn't bored. And, believe it, he knew what bored meant.

But that was something he was not.